


Fall

by Valenix



Series: Angst One-Shots [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Inadvisable Coping Mechanisms, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 19:03:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15298008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valenix/pseuds/Valenix
Summary: Tony fell. He was gone. He was never coming back.Steve wanted to fall, too.





	Fall

Death was messy.

That was the worst part, Steve thought, standing in the doorway of their bedroom, numb except for the burn behind his eyes and the choking pressure on the inside of his throat. Across the room the bed was still unmade; the bedside tables still held the book he’d been reading, the boot Tony had been tinkering with before Steve had pressed warm kisses to his lover’s shoulder and pulled it away. A pair of Tony’s axle-grease stained jeans lay half sprawled across the floor. The bathroom counter was still littered with bottles of the expensive skincare products he knew Tony quietly obsessed over, the towel he'd hung up too a little too carelessly on the rack. An empty mug on the floor by the window, where the two of them had watched the sunrise, Tony barely conscious but content cradled in Steve's arms. 

The mess was the worst part, because it spoke of what was unfinished. On any other day they would have come home, and Steve would have asked Tony to put his laundry away - only to peel off whatever Tony was wearing and leave that unceremoniously forgotten in a similar pattern of disarray across their bedroom floor. Once they'd worked off their nervous energy, Tony would pick up his boot and tinker again. Steve would wrap his arms around his waist and pillow his head on Tony's stomach, content to trace circles on Tony's golden skin.

The boot was surrounded by tiny parts, a complicated mess Steve had never tried to understand, and suddenly that was devastating. He’d never tried hard enough to understand Tony's genius. He'd never bothered to ask, always distracted by the brilliance he saw in Tony himself to realise how much of it was reflected in the titanium alloy parts scattered across the nightstand. 

Steve would have to clean it up, tidy it away, and it felt like he would be clearing away part of Tony’s memory too early. He’d only been dead for six hours.

Six hours since Steve’s world skidded to a stop; six hours since it’d galloped ahead again, dragging him with it, dragging him further from his lover with every second that passed.

Six hours since Tony had fallen.

Steve wanted to fall, too.

* * *

The jeans were still there, a week later. The boot stayed at least a month. Every time he saw them he was overwhelmed by a rush of renewed agony, but he left them there, never quite sure whether it's a unique form of punishment he's forcing himself through or if it's a tribute to his lover.

Either way, couldn’t sleep without burying his nose in Tony’s pillow, trying to commit the last lingering traces of his scent to memory, staring at a piece of technology he would never understand, where it’d been casually discarded so long ago. 

* * *

Making calls was no harder than it’d always been. He could see the tactical decisions he needed to make before he’d even registered that he needed to make them, and he led the team with the same brutal efficiency as he always had. The team had slipped seamlessly into their work like nothing had ever happened. They still got the job done. They still saved the day. 

It wasn’t fun, though. Not any more. There were no impromptu leaps from skyscrapers, no moments of glorious victory chasing the last of the battle-born adrenaline, no joking quips over the comms for him to secretly smile at. There was no air support he could depend on.

He had to stop himself from calling instructions to a teammate who wasn’t there.

Battles were always hard, though, because for all that they were cathartic they built a tension in him that he struggled to release. In the past Tony had always known the exact thing Steve needed, even mid-battle, to help him blow off a little steam. But Tony wasn't there, and the others didn't know how to help, so the tension built, and he could only think of one way to find relief.

Tony always used to take him flying. 

He needed to be above the city again. He needed to feel the wind on his face, and see the city laid out below them like a galaxy stretching below them. He needed to see the rivers of headlights as they wove between buildings, he needed to feel that moment of freefall he so desperately craved.

It was convenient, really, that there were a few of their latest opponents holed up in the top floor of a nearby skyscraper. He didn’t bother waiting for backup. He didn’t _care_ , any more, if he needed it. He had a single-minded determination to distract himself for a few moments more, to so thoroughly engross himself in battle that he couldn’t see Tony’s smile in the corner of his vision, that he wouldn’t hear his _wonderful_ laugh ringing through his ears, a smart-assed comment waiting on his lips for Steve to swallow with a kiss.

If he threw himself in the deep end, he could forget.

It was refreshing, being above the city again; he was distracted, as he fought, by the view below. He could have sworn he heard the distant whine of Tony’s repulsors echoed in the roar of the wind and battle below. He was sure he saw glints of red and gold flash on the very edges of his vision, and found himself turning every time. He was too close to the edge, but he didn’t care. He could breathe again, with the city laid out below, as he hammered the shield into the skill of another alien and turned to face the next. He could hear Tony’s chuckle behind his ears - could hear Tony warning him to be careful, even as one of them swung at him with a blow more intended to throw him backward than actually hurt him on the way through.

But Tony wasn’t there, because he was dead. He wasn't there to warn him, to save him, to love him. 

So Steve let himself take the hit; let himself be knocked over the low concrete wall; let himself fall, freely, the way he’d been aching to do since Tony had done the same.He could breathe, even as the breath was knocked out of him. He felt peace, suddenly, in that moment of free-fall, something he hadn’t felt for months.

This had happened hundreds of times, in battles past. Each time it’d been executed with breathtaking precision; Iron Man had always been close enough to catch him as he fell, and he had only needed to open his arms, ready and waiting for warm, secure metal to wrap itself around his waist and fit itself perfectly into the curve of him. Tony would do some kind of theatrical, unnecessary manoeuvre that would set Steve whooping with inappropriate glee at the absolute freedom that came with sailing through the air together, and when they landed they would share a brief kiss before leaping back into the fray.

That wouldn’t happen, this time. Tony was gone. Iron Man was gone. He was never coming back.

Steve opened his arms, and closed his eyes, and waited for a rescue he knew would never come.

**Author's Note:**

> If you’re here because you’re not in a great place and needed some cathartic relief, please know you’re not alone. Do what Steve didn’t do, and reach out for some help: find the right organisation for you on this list.
> 
> Also: I need people to follow on Tumblr. Let me know your recommendations, or just your own blogs! Mine is [here](https://valenixfix.tumblr.com/) \- I'll follow back :)


End file.
